It’s been an eventful first few days here in Jamaica, jewel of the Caribbean: an island of rich culture, loud music, Rastafarianism, paradise beaches, ganja and an aching gulf between rich and poor. An island of fabulous natural beauty and diverse, friendly people; this is certainly going to be a memorable month!
The plane journey (all 9hours 50 of it) was fairly uneventful, save for the guy I was sitting next to: a Jamaican expat who has lived in England for the last 50 years. Now a retired taxi man, he’s been travelling back and forth to the home country fairly frequently over the last 50 years. “Believe me,” he said as I looked in dismay at the ‘fish pie’ (actually not that bad, but it looked atrocious), “airplane food has improved a lot since the 80s!” My first sight of Montego Bay was breathtaking: clear white sands, palm trees, resorts, and an infinity of gorgeous blue Caribbean Sea. I thought at one point that the plane was making a sea landing, but a tiny runway rose out of nowhere and we touched down.
The Jamaican immigration official was quite possibly the scariest person I have ever encountered. She interviewed me in great depth about what I was doing, where I was going, who I was seeing, and how long I was staying; she looked Highly Sceptical at every mumbled reply I gave – my nerves probably didn’t help!
My next experience was Kevin, my taxi driver who would take me from Montego Bay airport to Black River: a journey from the north of the island to the south coast. Now there was an experience I will never forget! We whizzed through the streets of Montego Bay at what felt like 90mph, dodging street hawkers, cars, lorries and traffic lights, weaving between lanes and making frequent use of the horn. But that was before we got into the countryside: we drove right through the mountainous Cockpit County, a region of hairpin bends, narrow roads, and exotic forests dripping with vines and bright fruit. Here, he accelerated up to what must have been 190mph. Sadly (or perhaps it is a relief) I will never know as his speedometer was broken, fixed permanently at 15. We careered around the bends, missing the goat herders, roadside shacks and rickety trucks that looked as if they were held together by sticky tape and blind faith by the narrowest of margins, overtaking cars just in time to avoid being crushed to death by oncoming traffic. Meanwhile the radio blasted out dancehall and R&B, beloved all over Jamaica; commercials were dominated by adverts for parties, with lines such as “Where ALL the girls will be SEXY in BIKINIS!” I finally know where the YouTube PowerAde spoof came from – I’m sure it was the same voiceover.
As we drew up to my new bungalow two hours later, I finally realised that I had to start breathing again, and went out to meet my new family: mum, dad and two kids: Vanessa, 17, and Christopher, 11, both off from school for summer. There are also a succession of uncles and cousins who come and go, and a menagerie of motley animals (my Jamaican mum owns a small food company who sell assorted items to tourist resorts).
I found my placement the next day: a short walk from my house, up the high street and facing out onto Black River Bay with its tiny blue waves and solitary shipwreck. Black River is a diminutive place of 4000 people, but is the capital of St Elizabeth Parish: the offices of the Parish are concentrated in the dilapidated Georgian courthouse and the yard behind it. My office – one room with a single computer – is a miscellaneous department covering disasters and development, dealing with the multiple hazards facing the people of Jamaica. It’s a relaxed place, consisting of our boss Renee and one other volunteer from East Anglia University (we are soon to be joined by two more volunteers). Certainly doesn’t seem like an awful lot of work is going to get done!
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